


Looking for Sunshine

by Spylace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Mid-Credits Scene, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7114273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a hard road to recovery. </p><p>Or alternatively, Bucky relearns how to life in Wakanda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking for Sunshine

“Bucky, no.”

Bucky knew Steve would fight him on this; strangers on the street could tell Steve would fight him on this. Steve could make a fight out of anything if he put his mind to it and he’d be right.

“You sound like a chicken.” He said, picking at his scrubs. “Buck, buck, buck.”

 Steve sighed. Bucky imagined he was being a pain. In the past, it had gotten him the chair and the jolts to his brain. Steve wouldn’t do that to him.

“No.”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“I just got you back, I’m not going to let you...” the sentence trails off into interpretive hand gestures.

Bucky had hoped to talk to T’Challa privately except Steve hadn’t taken his eyes off him since Siberia and a fella might get a wrong idea about that. He just couldn’t figure out why when Steve’s team was next door. A small part of him clung to the fact that Steve still chose him. Steve chose him over Stark, the Avengers, and the world and if that meant anything at all, Bucky had to be the adult and go back on the ice for everyone’s peace of mind.

“But going under? How’s that better than Hydra?”

“I’d get some sleep for one thing.” He shrugged depreciatingly.

Steve winced because he had seen Bucky’s version of sleep.

It wasn’t.

But Steve was determined. The clenched jaws and bull-headed expression was as familiar as it was fond. He just wished that he wasn’t seeing it now.

“You’re hurting. You’re stupid when you’re hurting. Bucky, it’s okay to ask for help.”

“I’m asking now.”

Steve rocked back on his heels like Bucky’d punched him in the kisser. Didn’t he understand that Bucky was trying to keep him safe? Christ on a stick, the serum didn’t give him a lick of sense to go with his body. Steve fought Stark for Bucky. Steve fought Howie’s son for Bucky and Bucky killed Howie. What a mess. Bucky wasn’t the kind of man Steve could trust to have on his six. He was the kind people put down. A tin man with no heart, no brains, no courage and no ruby slippers to tap three times and go home.

Couldn’t Steve see that?

T’Challa stepped in.

Wakanda did not have the technology to put him under. Not at the moment. He should have been happy they were willing to go through the trouble of procuring extra parts but the thought filled him with dread. Goosebumps pricked his flesh when he remembered his coffin and the small, square window. He just wanted it over with dammit.

He wetted his lips and asked, “What’s gonna happen to me?”

“I will provided you protection for as long as you require it.” The king said without batting an eye and he felt humbled by the reassurance. Like Bucky was worth something.

“If the UN finds out he’s here.” Steve warned, ready to whisk Bucky away at a moment’s notice. Into the jungle if he had to. Where there were spiders. The spiders gave him a pause. He remembered that Steve hated spiders. His fingers itched for something to write it down.

“Let them come.” T’Challa said fiercely.

And the relief that seeped through his stomach was like a cool balm on sunburnt skin.

For once, he thought it might turn out to be okay.

 

But Steve had to go. Steve couldn’t stay in Wakanda. He and the Avengers had an obligation to the world—even Wanda who was hurt the deepest by its fears.

From the other side of the globe, Hank Pym sent a message of hope. He was willing to commit several (read: many) fraudulent transactions if it meant sticking one in Howie and his son’s eye.

“I’ll be fine Steve.” Bucky reassured him as they said their goodbyes. “Give Sharon a call will you?”

“Jerk.” Steve sniffled.

“Barnes.” Sam nodded before giving in like a wet cardboard to squeeze him in a hug.

Scott, Clint and Wanda shook his hand. Then they were gone. Only the warm draft of their borrowed quinjet swirling around his face.

His bravado crumbled in Steve’s absence.

Bucky went through quarantine as all outsiders did when entering Wakanda for the first time. He received a standard booster shot that made his skin tingle, a round of vaccines for twenty-first century protozoal diseases and a de-wormer.

The doctors treated him kindly even though they were buying time until the inevitable. He wished that the eggs would make up their minds quick because days from now, weeks, months, Steve was going to come back. He didn’t know if he would change his mind about Bucky’s worth and he berated himself for the doubt. Wished that he had his metal arm just to hold something instead of sitting idle.

He didn’t need two arms. The Winter Soldier was fine with one. But it was strange having one arm. He hadn’t fully appreciated the gravitas of having one arm. Didn’t have the time. When he woke up in the Alps, there had been more pressing matters at hand (ha). Like his shattered back. Or the fucking Nazi who had him strapped to a table. It was an issue of balance. He’d gotten the hang of it but it was odd.

He sighed. It was loud. He froze when the doctors flinched and tittered, looking guilty as sin. But their enthusiasm was infectious (get it) and he held his arm out where track marks tied the Orion’s belt on his veins. Dr. Mendinao, teeth gleaming like pearls against his dark skin, enthused over the traces of whooping cough in his blood.

He became more excited as he reported to date, when he received the vaccines. Hiding in underground vaults had made Hydra a quintessential cesspool of infectious diseases. Wouldn’t Steve get a kick out of the fact that the humble flue nearly brought down the monster with many heads? So they patented a lot of his antibodies over the years, made bank and kept premium to a minimum. Nothing short of Captain America was lighting fire under their asses.

Dr. Itobo, the head researcher, took another blood sample from the crook of his elbow.

“We apologize for the delay Sergeant Barnes. We do not have many opportunities to study the effects of early twentieth century diseases.”

He didn’t reply. His input was not required. Wakanda was leafy and green. Warm enough that he didn’t instinctively shiver. He watched as the sun warmed his skin to champagne. Dr. A’Kane rubbed sunscreen in his skin and chided him for not taking better care of himself.

“We believed they engineered the vaccine from antibodies which resulted when the virus came in contact with your blood.” Dr. Mendinao explained, putting up a chart. It made sense. Not even Hydra was willing to risk mission efficiency with his brain on the clock. He nodded along, giving Dr. Mbete a wink when he caught her looking. She blushed and ducked her head.

He liked Dr. Mbete. If he was in his right mind, he would have stayed far away. From Mbete, Mendinao, Itobo, A’Kane, everyone. But he liked her. She could chatter nonstop about the aquarium in her small apartment. It was soothing. Her fish were a constant source of wonder for her.

“I will take better photos next time.” She said, pocketing her phone.

After a little while (three hours, seventeen minutes), T’Challa entered the medical ward with a swoosh of sliding doors.

“Barnes.”

“Your highness.” He greeted.

He would have stood up to salute but the doctor told him to stay still. He stayed still even as the king of Wakanda frowned at him.

“What are you doing here?”

T’Challa seemed displeased. He wasn’t angry with him (not yet) but Bucky knew better than to think that the brunt of his anger would not turn his way. It was the Winter Soldier’s job to eliminate the source of his ire. He licked his lips.

“What do you mean?”

“Wakanda boasts the finest medical facilities in the world.” T’Challa began. “However, I assumed that after everything you’ve been through that this is the last place you wished to be.”

“Dr. Itobo wanted to test me for smallpox.” He replied, stung. “Got shots in 1922 but it’s only supposed to stick around for three to five years.”

T’Challa’s frown deepened as he went on. Eventually, Bucky shut up.

“You are a guest in my home. You are not obligated to assist Dr. Itobo’s research in pediatric immunization.”

Bucky asked longingly, “Can I leave?”

At T’Challa’s terse nod, he got off the table. The cool floor was a shock to his bare feet and he staggered at the absent weight of his left shoulder.

“Come.” T’Challa said, a hand at his elbow. “I have been a poor host.”

Bucky let out a noise of protest except he wasn’t sure what point he was arguing.

“Have you eaten?” The king asked out of the blue.

His stomach gurgled amenably.

“Uh, no sir.”

“Then you will join us tonight.”

T’Challa gestured for him to follow. Bucky stopped.

“Uh, the doctors.” He stammered. “They won’t get in trouble right? They didn’t do anything wrong.”

A grimace rippled its way across T’Challa’s mouth.

“They should have been more considerate. I wish for you to feel safe here.”  

“Why?” The other man opened his mouth to answer and closed it.

“I would like to become your friend.”

When Bucky said nothing, T’Challa added.

“I also would like you to see someone this afternoon. She is a therapist specializing in post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Battle-fatigue. Wakanda was a dichotomy of traditions and modernity.

“Okay.” He agreed because it was easier.

T’Challa raised an eyebrow.

“Most soldiers argue.”

“I’m not most.” He said and smiled.

“No you are not.” T’challa conceded. “Dinner is at seven. Do not be late.”

 

T’Challa’s headshrinker was a dame with mile-long legs and mint green socks with pink polka-dots. The pink polka-dots turned out to be little mickeys and he blushed when she introduced herself.

“Good morning, my name is M’Koni and I will be your therapist during your stay in Wakanda.”

“Hello.” He said. “James Barnes. Bucky.”  

“I want you to know that all materials from our sessions is kept strictly confidential.” He nodded along. It was a threat assessment. “And I will do everything in my power to help you in working towards achieving your goals.”  

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He said automatically.

“You’re well on your way.” Dr. M’Koni said without a hint of irony. She had a notebook in her hand, spiral-bound, well-worn, well-loved; she didn’t write in it. He wished that he could. His journal was probably buried somewhere with the rest of Hydra evidence that will never see the light of day. Some things were just too damned shameful.

He laughed.

“Ma’am, I don’t know how much you’ve been briefed but believe me when I say I’m the most dangerous thing in this room.”

“Let me be the judge of that Sergeant Barnes.”

“Don’t call me that.” He snapped and immediately apologized.

“Pardon me.” She said, bringing up an image of red lips and glossy brown hair. “It is I who should apologize. My files listed you as a sergeant but I shouldn’t have assumed. Do you prefer James?”

He raised an eyebrow at the question. Most people called him whatever the hell they wanted to call him.

“Steve called me Bucky.” He said, instead of ‘my name is Bucky’ he’d given Zemo in Berlin. It felt a little like being in a confessional. The room seemed to fold inward. No one had ever expected an answer from him.

“Do you want to be called Bucky?”

Good question. He called himself Bucky because Bucky was a good man and he wished to be good.

“I don’t know.” He said softly.

She nodded.

“Alright, why don’t we choose that as our first assignment?”

“Assignment?” He scowled. “My name? What kind of stupid... what kind of an assignment is that?”

“A very important one. Names are important. We go through many names in our lifetime. Names help us define who we are. For example, M’Koni is a name that my parents drew for me but it is also a name I have earned. When people say my name, they think of me and not someone else. When I was a child, I was also called ‘monkey’ because of my personality.” She chuckled. “And because I was very loud.”

He smiled.

“My friends, when I went to study abroad called me Mary, because they could not pronounce my name.”

“They should have tried harder.” He said crushingly even though he still had trouble with the clicks.

“Yes.” She agreed. “You see? My point stands. You will go through many names. The one you use in Wakanda may not be the one you use elsewhere.”

He thought about it. It was silly. A name. He had a name. Everyone knew him by that name. Not everyone. Something inside him whispered oil-slick. He ground his knuckles against his scalp. The Russians called him _soldat_. The Americans called him a ghost. He shuddered when he thought of Hydra and Pierce.

“Do I gotta answer now?”

“No, that’s why it is an assignment. Our time is nearly up.”

Surely enough, the hour hand pointed to five.

“Oh.”

“It was very nice to meet you. Will I be seeing you tomorrow?”

T’Challa had not set a time frame for their interactions. He bit his lips.

“Yes.”

 

He had been introduced to Wakanda’s royal family before. But only in a formal setting. Breaking bread had become an intimate ritual to him. His fingers skirted nerveless around the elegant forks and silver spoons. Having one arm meant that he required assistance and it was embarrassing how attentive Ayo was even though she had no experience serving. She was Dora Milaje. One of the king’s personal guards.

Thankfully, dinner was a private affair. T’Challa’s two uncles were not in attendance. Only the guards surrounded them as food was served.

“Where’s his arm?” Princess Shuri asked when she noticed him put down his fork, pick up a spoon, eat, put down the spoon, pick up a fork, stab a mushroom, eat, put down the fork.

“Shuri.” Queen Ramonda admonished.

“What?” Princess Shuri asked, all innocence and wide eyes. He would have fallen for it too if it weren’t for the fact that he’d used it on his ma one or two times. “It’s a valid question. We can afford to give him an arm can’t he?”

T’Challa came to his rescue when he struggled to answer.

“An arm does not appear from thin air Shuri. It is being made.”

The conversation lapsed into small talk about world economy and the American presidential election. It was an attempt to make him feel included and he winced at the pinched look between T’Challa’s eyes. Hell, Donald Trump wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault except good old Uncle Sam’s. He speared a spinach and shoved it in his mouth.

“Is the food not to your liking Sergeant Barnes?”

The queen watched him in concern. He’d been picking at the pile of beans on his plate. He hadn’t thought anyone would notice. Even Ayo had lost interest after the fifteenth time he’d set down his spoon to pick up his fork. She shouldn’t have and he felt angry that she did. He could have easily stabbed her in the jugular before throwing knives.

He cleared his throat. And his thoughts.

“It’s perfect ma’am. Uh, your highness.” He stammered. “Just not used to eating well I guess.”

The serum dialed his senses to an eleven. Most foods smelled unappealing, chemical. He stuck mostly to fruits and vegetables. Nothing complicated. One great thing about Romania was the marketplace. He wondered if he would ever taste plums again.

Shuri clicked her tongue. A cut of meat was placed on his plate, on top of the beans. Meat upset him. He didn’t like the idea of blood and muscle carved from what had once been a living, breathing animal. Didn’t like that it was on his plate oozing warmth and flavor. It didn’t smell bad. On the contrary, it was mouthwatering. He would have killed for something like this before the war. After. Now he couldn’t even think about meat without having it overlap with one of his kills. Maybe someday, with his triggers gone, he could be normal again. He just wasn’t ready.

“If you prefer a vegetarian fare, we have fish and rice.” The chef suggested.

“It’s alright.” He said because wasting food was worse. Ayo cut the meat into cubes.

“You know what?” Shuri said. “He reminds me of the elephant calf. Do you remember brother?”

T’Challa rolled his eyes.

“How could I not? You begged mother for months to put him in your menagerie.”

“I was young.” She said primly.

“It was last year.”

“What is the difference?”

“Shuri.” T’Challa warned sternly.

“Just wait.” Shuri leaned in her chair. “You are king now. Soon you will need to pass on the mantle of the Black Panther. I will win it from you.”

He caught his spoon before it fell and slapped it face up on the table. His heart pounded. Princess Shuri was weary of him. As she should be. She saw him for what he was. He didn’t know why it hurt so damned much.

The room closed in.

Ayo placed a hand next to his spoon. She didn’t touch him. Her eyes were very kind.

“Are you alright Sergeant?”

He breathed through his mouth.

“May I, uh, may I be excused?”

“Of course.” Ramonda nodded. Both Shuri and T’Challa jumped in their seats as they were pinched. They looked vaguely guilty for something.

“Thank you.” He swallowed. “It was a wonderful meal.”

He barely made it to his room to throw up.

**Author's Note:**

> After Captain America: Civil War  
> 1\. *hemorrhages feelings*  
> 2\. Why does Wakanda have Bucky's freeze-tube on hand?  
> 3\. Yeah no. No Bucky. I deny your right to choose for yourself.


End file.
